All of which I note, however, perhaps with too scant relevance to the inexhaustible charm of Roman and Florentine memories. Off the ground, at a distance, our fond indifference to being silly grows fonder still the working convention, as I have called it — the convention of the real revelations and sur renders on one side and the real immersions and appreciations on the other — has not only nothing to keep it down, but every glimpse of contrast, every pang of exile and every nostalgic twinge to keep it up.